


Rhysand Becomes High Lord

by jarynw02



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 16:30:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12845070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarynw02/pseuds/jarynw02
Summary: When their father dies, Rhysand's sister inherits the power of the High Lord instead of him, but one day when he feels a rush of new magic growing within him, he takes off looking for his sister.





	Rhysand Becomes High Lord

The day my little sister received our father’s power was a blow in the deepest part of my chest and though I was glad for my beloved, petulant, and, quite frankly, wild sibling I had to admit a piece of me filled with an ounce of grief that it would never be me to hold that burden. The mantle of High Lord had always been intended for my shoulders and despite that small, jealous whisper in my mind, I was relieved. I was relieved to have been freed from obligation and freed from the watchful eyes of my father’s men. 

The very men I’d just left behind, not bothering to wait until I was out of their sight to unleash my wings as I took to the frigid, stormy skies. 

My sister had flourished. She came to life as if the power of the High Lord lit her from within. She walked with a humble, bespoken boldness and even her once mildly obnoxious laughter had turned into a cacophony of contagious joy. She pulled in those around her, calling to them with latent magic that molded her into the best version of herself.

The wind sung in my ears, a shrill deafening song as strength slowly seeped into my bones, my blood. 

“You’re still my hero, my big brother.”

Her voice echoed through my thoughts, a memory of the last time I’d seen her in an Illyrian tent after we’d put on an extravagant show of a battle for the resting warriors. I could still feel her calloused fingers cupping my cheek and the exact spot her chin fell on my chest when she seized a bear hug from me without warning. Her devastating violet eyes so deep they were almost black and her wicked smile that never left her lonely.

The well of my magic was growing, swelling and I waited for it to burst. I begged for it to stop, to leave me empty. I’d give all my power, every last drop to prevent what I’d felt happening deep within me. The High Lord’s strength was transferring to me.

My sister’s strength.

My eyes stung in the sleeting rains and for only that, was I grateful. My tears were lost in the storm that the Night Court lands had thrown for the sake of its master, its queen. I was lost in the storm of my heart, wondering, unknowing.

Where was my sister.

I flew past the closest camp, reaching out for her with my mind, terrified of the newly attained reach the extra magic had given me. 

I tried not to remember the day I taught her to fly, a day much like this one, and despite forcing the worst conditions upon her, she excelled and immediately asked me for a race. I tried not to remember her cunning, her wit. I tried not to remember the way she was everything I wasn’t.

The tents of the Illyrian camp we were set to meet at later today were just in my sight, but as I reached the perimeter of their hunting lands, I felt her.

I dropped to the snow below.

My fine boots crashed into the icy ground, my knees screaming from the hit I’d not prepared myself for, but I took off in a run with greater speed than I’d possessed just hours before. The storm howled around me, an egregious lament to my breaking heart. Through the last line of trees I finally found a form in the distance, alone in the snow.

Still. So still.

I ran to her, my voice roaring in the winds, calling to her.

She did not answer.

She was face down, the raven hair I’d once cut with a pocket knife when we were children was spilled across the snow with a blood stained halo. 

Blood. There was so much blood.

I fell to her side, not ready to register the two gaping wounds beneath her shoulder blades still draining her of the last moments of her life. I lifted her into my arms, cradling her against my chest. 

Her eyes… 

Her eyes were open and I begged,  _ begged  _ the Cauldron, the Mother, anyone or anything to take my life for hers. I couldn’t… I couldn’t watch her go without me. 

I waited for her breath, even one small breath in the cold. 

But there was none. 

I clung to her and wept.

The last drop of power sealed into my being and I felt it - the shift. I became High Lord of the Night Court the moment my sister died in my arms.

There weren’t enough things to say. Not enough energy in me to scream. 

There wasn’t a void large enough for me to fall into, to escape into a world where my sister would wake up and laugh at me for being so dramatic. 

There would never be another rooftop breakfast where she discussed what kind of woman I should end up with or what terrible thing our father had done to us as children. There would never be another fake fight, just for her to show off her power to the Illyrians. There would never be another screaming match about who was the pettiest over who chose what’s for dinner. There would never be another all nighter drinking in our family’s cabin. There would never be another mocking glance, another offended punch to my arm, another soul crushing hug.

Not after this one.

I unleashed a wild burst of power, desperate to be rid of the reminder of all that I’d lost as I roared a beastly mourning song into the whipping winds of the storm.

And when the sun finally set, and darkness loomed, I kissed both of her cheeks and whispered, “You’ll always be my hero, my little sister.”


End file.
